


Endless Way

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Human Disaster Endeavour Morse, Hurt/Comfort, Interior Decorating, Lovely Max, Male Friendship, Mild Gore, Pop Culture, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Am I a bad person, Max?’ he asks, apparently apropos of nothing and Max blinks; of all the things he expected, this wasn’t quite it. ‘Is there – I mean – do good and evil, do they really exist, do you think? Or are they just…social constructs, stopping us from getting what we truly want?’In which there is a case, some tension and Max attempts to help out.
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	Endless Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mud_Lark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Lark/gifts).



> A couple of months ago, I had a mental breakdown as a consequence of my OCD and the lovely Mud_Lark reached out to me to check I was okay and offered me a kind and non-judgemental ear. I wanted to write them a fic as a thankyou and promised it to them back in February, but then everything else happened and I'm recovering from a second mental health episode as a consequence of the sheer stress of lockdown. It's been about six months since I finished any Endeavour fic so this was a nice thing to work on, although I might be a bit rusty. 
> 
> This is set between Episode 2 and 3 of Series 7. There is a murder case in the background so warnings for death and a bit of gore, and a lot (I mean, A LOT) of Housman. Max just would not stop quoting that guy. Of course, the title is inspired by the infamous Shropshire Lad XXXII (otherwise known as 'now for a breath, I tarry').

* * *

_Speak now and I will answer;_

_How shall I help you, say;_

_Ere to the wind's twelve quarters_

_I take my endless way._

*

The body is found by the river, washed up among reeds by a pair of early-morning punters who are both wearing shock-blankets and chatting to the officers when Morse arrives, Thursday and Strange in tow. Max takes a moment to look up from the body of the poor unfortunate who wound up in such a sorry state, and nods solemnly.

‘Gentlemen,’ he greets, standing for a moment, for as much as the state of his knees as anything else. He’s not getting any younger, despite the sometimes necessity of a pathologist to bend and contort yourself into small spaces and positions in order to get a good look at the scene, and the poor person left behind, who, unlike Max, will never grow old enough to hear their knees crack.

‘What’ve you got, Doctor?’ Thursday asks, gruffly, his hat off as usual. Max goes through the necessities – male, early twenties, found with his books scattered around him in the reeds; directs Morse’s attention to the ligatures, thin whip-like marks around the poor wretch’s throat.

‘Strangulation,’ he supplies gravely, ‘Unless he fell and managed to get himself caught by the reeds of the river… I’m inclined to view this death as suspicious,’ he says it dryly, stating the obvious.

Morse nods, shifts on the spot – looks out to the river, eyes thoughtful. Thursday’s eyes flit his way; Max wonders if he’s imagining a slightly dark look on the Inspector’s face, quickly shakes the thought away.

‘Is it him, do you think?’ he asks, bluntly. ‘The same one as did for that chef?’

Morse shakes his head, distracted. ‘No, don’t think so. Different setting, for one,’ he adds with more feeling and a frown in the DI’s direction and gets something like a grimace in return. Strange drops his gaze to the ground.

‘Shall we say two o’clock?’ Max asks lightly and reaches for his briefcase.

*

Thursday doesn’t come to the post-mortem, curiously enough; Morse shows up alone. Max doesn’t comment on this; it’s possible that the Inspector is chasing up leads, talking to family and friends. But considering Morse’s ever-so-slight necrophobia…

 _‘The sun is up and so must I,’_ Max treads lightly; Morse smiles tightly, glancing up from where his gaze is fixed on the body.

 _‘And all’s to do again,’_ he rejoins quietly; as half-hearted as Max, who tilts his head at the lack of effort from them both, sensing that neither of them are particularly in the mood. Not when there’s a man younger than them both on the table; Gerald Hayworth, a Literature post-grad, identified thus by his devastated parents not an hour or two before. That part of the job never gets any easier, any more than it is easy to have the bodies of the young laid out on the table.

‘Dumped in the river,’ he confirms to Morse now, ‘in the early hours of the morning. Died between midnight and four o’clock. I can only imagine that the assailant meant to get rid of the evidence, albeit badly.’

Morse frowns. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Someone must have seen something…’ He scowls; turns his head, glancing around. ‘What about the books that were brought in with him?’

‘Just there…’ Max points to the trolley, where the books are laid out, side by side, on a plastic sheet. ‘There’s a Housman among them,’ he notes; unable to disguise his pain at the prospect of that great poet’s work being thrown into the water, along with the poor man’s body. ‘And a Pope, along with some notebooks. All his, of course, his name is written in all of them. Though, I’m inclined to wonder as to whether there might have been some sort of bag or satchel.’

‘I was wondering that, too,’ Morse mulls over. ‘I mean – could you carry all this in one go?’ He indicates the books with a frown that Max returns.

‘If I was a sadist looking to punish myself and the muscles in my back, yes.’ He’s sure that Morse is hiding a smirk as he dips his head as he returns to study the books and it’s oddly gratifying. ‘Anything outstanding?’

‘Hm, not at first glance,’ Morse mutters, more to himself than anything, rummaging through the papers.

‘What does Inspector Thursday think?’ Max ventures; wonders if he’s imagining Morse stilling for a split-second before he draws breath to speak.

‘Oh, he’s preoccupied with the Towpath cases,’ he glances up, offers Max the kind of tight smile that convinces nobody.

‘Very well.’ Max carefully covers Gerald Hayworth’s pale, vacant face back over, along with his own curiosity that Morse is not assisting Thursday; that they appear to be working so separately in this case. ‘Keep me informed, yes?’

‘Of course,’ Morse nods and Max walks him out. ‘I meant to ask you – how’s your cottage doing? Your garden?’ He asks it as though he’s ticking something off a list; Max blinks, oddly gratified.

‘Well, thankyou. How’s your humble abode coming along?’

‘It’s good. Just started painting,’ Morse clarifies. ‘No particularly wonderful garden to speak of, though.’ It’s a rare, unexpected compliment; more fulsome than his previous, almost shy declaration of ‘nice’ the previous summer.

‘One thing at a time,’ Max smiles, encouragingly; Morse nods, lingers.

‘Perhaps you’d…like to come over sometime?’ he makes the offer almost shyly, like a child offering out a toy, unsure if it will be accepted or snubbed; rather as he was a few years ago when he was not-so-subtly aiming for romantic counsel next to a corpse on the side of the river. Max had assumed a certain loftiness in his reply to spare them both the blushes, wondering and highly doubting if Morse had anyone else to talk to. There are many reasons why he did his utmost to make the fellow feel so welcome when he arrived on Max’s doorstep last year, with cake and iced tea; watched with something close to pride at a rare relaxation in the other man’s features as he settled into Max’s spot.

‘Only, I…’ Morse clears his throat minutely, perhaps mistaking Max’s quiet surprise for refusal. ‘I never had a chance to repay your hospitality. I’d like to now – if you’ll allow it,’ he adds, with the self-deprecating tone of one who isn’t sure they’ll be entirely accepted.

But honestly, the prospect of being invited into Morse’s space is altogether quite a compelling one; Max is willing to wager he’s one of a very select few to be given such an invitation. There’s something flattering about that, he considers.

‘Yes,’ he smiles warmly. ‘I’d like that.’

Morse smiles back, looking a little happier – a rare change – before putting his coat on and making his farewells.

‘I’ll see you soon, Doctor.’

*

A few days later – and no closer to catching the killer of the poor unfortunate Gerald Hayworth – Max returns to his office to find a note, courtesy of an enterprising nurse who took the phone-call: Morse’s address and suggested time of visitation for that evening; abrupt enough that Max recognises it to be the real thing. Any trepidation – an unfortunate by-product of the saga at the quarry – is alleviated by the fact that the location matches the few things he knows about Morse’s relatively new abode, partly from its seedy past as a crack-den and partly courtesy of Sergeant Strange. He’s been there a time or two himself, dropping things off, helping Morse out, and also managing to wheedle a drink or two out of his cabinet. Honestly, the ambition of the Detective-Sergeant is second to none; Max can’t deny that he can see him going far in the field. He doesn’t know what Morse would make of that in particular.

But then, it’s been hard to know what Morse makes of much, these days. Despite his friendliness with Max, he’s been…distant. Cagey, is the word that Max would use, talking out of turn; rather like his niece Margaret when she answered back as a child and was sent to sit in the corner as punishment, which never really helped anyone. Max, in all the mysteries of youth, had never quite known how to make sense of what went on in her mind back then, so he had fallen back to the steadfast, standard practise of sneaking her a toffee or two when her parents weren’t looking; throwing her an encouraging smile. _Chin up, child, all will be well._

He considers, more out of amusement than anything, saying the same to Morse; Morse who is folding his arms more, staring at the ground, or further away, beyond the clues of a crime-scene. Morse who is meeting the eyes of Inspector Thursday a lot less than he used to. There’s a tension in the way they speak; a lingering distance somewhere between the words. They’re more professional – less…proactive with one another. Less…contributing to one another’s words, and worlds. Max doesn’t think he can recall the last time he heard mention of any sort of drinking together; but then, Morse hasn’t seemed to let himself be dragged to the pub for a long time.

The murders at the Towpath – and the evading whistler – still evade them, hang over their heads like a shadow, a murderer beyond their reach and beyond, it seems, Thursday and Morse’s own agreement.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Max’s Hippocratic Oath, he would bang their bloody heads together.

*

He knocks politely on Morse’s door that evening and stands to attention; raises his eyebrows as the sergeant shows up at the door in overalls, of all things.

‘Bad time?’ he asks. ‘I got your note.’

‘Oh,’ Morse nods, slightly-too wide eyes lowering a little; he looks rather like the proverbial rabbit caught in headlights. ‘Of course, yes. Please, come in. Thankyou for coming. It’s good of you to – would you like a drink?’ He seems to be tripping over himself a little tonight; Max frowns as he’s waved inside.

‘Certainly, yes, thankyou, if you have the time?’

‘Certainly,’ Morse echoes, showing him through and Max can’t stop himself taking it all in; the ramshackle of a house half-done, raising his eyebrows.

‘Good heavens, Morse. What an ancestral pile.’

‘Mm, pile is the word.’ Morse is busy pouring drinks in a half-decorated living room; there’s the first remnants of paint over the walls and only a couple of chairs. ‘Coming on, though. Slowly. Please.’ He indicates that Max take a seat; seems a bit shaken, all things considered, Max thinks, but he says nothing, simply takes the whiskey offered and raises his eyebrows as Morse gulps down his.

‘Steady, old fellow. Is all well?’

‘Absolutely,’ Morse says over the rim of the glass as he sits down opposite. He seems easier settled than he is standing; wraps himself around the chair, taking an audibly deep breath.

‘Well, you’re doing a sterling job so far. Are you getting any help with this?’ Max asks, gesturing around, in an attempt at distraction more than anything, even as he considers the manner in which the man in front of him has moved around constantly, from one place to another, from one bed to another, almost, not seeming to care much as long as there’s a roof over his head and drink, if not food, in his belly. Morse stills; seems surprised at the question.

‘Not…particularly. I mean, it’s a project,’ he glances around. ‘I think I’d rather just…do this on my own terms. Something to do outside work.’ He says it with a kind of defiance, a jutting chin, as though determined to prove – whether to Max, or the world – that there is more to this life than coppering, as Thursday is so fond of saying.

‘Always good to have outside projects,’ Max compliments, taking that as it is. ‘Especially when it’s you,’ he adds with a smirk and Morse smirks back into his glass, visibly relaxing, the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily.

‘Hmmm…’ He chuffs a little into his glass and they fall into a silence; not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. That’s the benefit of silences with Morse; you can tell there’s always something beneath the surface.

‘Any news on the Towpath killer? Or the Hayworth case?’ Max ventures; gets a shake of the head in return.

‘I was wondering if you could tell me anything I’d missed,’ he says then, eyeing Max across the threshold, blue eyes firm and focused; his own perceived inability to solve the case is evident. Max resists the urge to roll his eyes; of course. Of _course_ the sergeant would have an ulterior motive to this. Still, the whiskey’s good.

‘You can’t discuss it with the inspector?’ he asks delicately; gets a frowning sort of smile in return.

‘I could,’ he matches Max in tone, ‘but you’re the pathologist, so I’m asking you. Your expertise,’ he adds belatedly. When Max says nothing – which Morse somehow seems to expect and to take on the chin – he sighs, waves his tumbler around; elaborates.

‘We seem to be at a crossroads,’ he admits and Max nods, trying to appear sympathetic. ‘We’ve,’ he sighs, rests his head in his hands, ‘we’ve asked around and – Gerald Hayworth seemed well-liked, he had a whole group of friends who seem devastated by his passing, no enemies to speak of. We’ve been told that he carried a satchel around habitually, because he was a keen reader. But we can’t find the satchel.’

He stands, stressed, hands on his hips, looking away. ‘They’re not in his rooms and we’ve checked the river and every which way around it; no-one has found it. It was a gift from his girlfriend, apparently,’ he scratches his hair, ‘and she’s upset enough. And we can’t seem to…’ he waves a hand around, seeming strange somehow to worry about a case in old, civilian clothes, clearly frustrated and Max twists his lips, thinking; trying to consider a list of possibilities that would help the sergeant.

‘Well, there’s nothing that wasn’t in my report,’ he muses, ‘obviously the strangulation was the cause of death… there’s nothing to suggest it was erotic, or accidental, unless proved otherwise. It was a clear line, Morse,’ he offers up, not entirely detached, ‘whoever killed him knew exactly what they were about.’

 _‘Definitely_ nothing to link them to the towpath murders?’ Morse asks, though the tilt of his eyebrows suggests that he thinks it’s highly unlikely. ‘Only,’ he continues, not waiting for Max to respond, ‘DI Thursday still thinks there might be a connection.’

‘And you don’t?’ Max asks, delicate in the face of Morse’s tight tone; gets a smile that’s nothing like one in return.

‘Oh, you know. Just a – a difference of professional opinion, that’s all.’

Max shrugs, doing his best to be non-judgemental – and wondering, in all honesty, how he could possibly be when one considers his less-than-stellar interactions with the odious Kemp? _‘The toil of all that be helps not the primal fault,’_ he murmurs; Morse smiles tightly back.

‘Another drink?’ he offers, forcibly bringing the conversation to a halt. While he’s refilling, Max takes the moment to look around again; at the house, which is slowly coming together – which Max once saw as a drugged-up dosshouse, bodies on mattresses on the floor – with no indication of help from anybody else, especially not when someone considers Morse’s introverted ways; at Morse, balancing DIY with hospitality. As though he’s throwing himself into something no-one else can quite see, not entirely.

‘That’s a pleasantly dark shade,’ he compliments the wall; not precisely what he would have chosen for himself, but then he’s always been a scarlet sort of man himself. Morse scoffs, looking up at it.

‘I hope so. Painting isn’t precisely my strong point. Therapeutic, though.’ He runs a hand through his auburn hair, contemplating the ceiling.

‘Hm.’ Max considers the walls; the room; Morse himself, how half-hearted it all seems, the first shade all but abandoned – that, and he doesn’t have anywhere pressing to be. ‘Would you care for some help?’

Morse glances up, seeming startled at the offer. ‘Sorry?’

‘With the painting,’ Max smiles, patient, knowing that the prospect of someone offering help to Morse is few and far between. Not even Thursday seems particularly speedy to offer Morse a hand these days and Max doesn’t like to see a good man lonely.

Morse bites his lip to look at him. ‘Well – that is, you – you don’t _have_ to.’ He seems hesitant and Max wonders how long he’s been stuck inside his own head without anyone to voice his thoughts to, gives him a look.

 _‘Oh hard is the bed they have made him,’_ he intones readily, _‘and common the blanket and –’_

Morse holds a hand up. ‘I’ll get the spare roller.’ His tone is resigned, but that sharp face softens, soft lashes lowering and he’s smirking – a curving, amused line.

‘Excellent,’ Max rolls his sleeves up; Morse’s answering chuff is like the soft surf of bristles, that first slide of freshness against a new surface.

It’s all rather pleasant, actually; with classical playing in the background and the constant, familiar rhythm of movement, painting the wall in a steady stream alongside Morse in his overalls, swapping random, well-remembered lines of poetry. It makes Max feel rather reminiscent of his early days in Oxford; of making a home for himself in-between developing his pathology career and causing squeamishness among the constabulary. It’s a focused art and he chuckles as when he gets some on his shirtsleeves; waves off Morse when he offers to get something to put over it.

‘Calm yourself, Morse. I do wear this same apparatus working with dead bodies, you know.’

‘You have overalls in the mortuary,’ Morse rejoins, somewhat cheekily. He’s irritatingly tall; with the advantage of height over Max, he can reach up and swipe the parts that Max’s shorter stature won’t allow him to reach. Sometimes, it feels like the slightest, warmest revenge for daring to mock his necrophobia. ‘And what if you get any on your glasses?’

‘Well, they have endured worse, if you recall,’ Max replies easily. He doesn’t mean to make the mood uncomfortable – he finds the best way of coping with the memories of his time under Jago’s brutal hospitality last year is to make light of it, that memory of his spectacles through blurred, rain-like vision, passed over from steady, gun-toting hands into his filthy, bloodied ones – and it takes a few seconds before he acknowledges the loss of sound from Morse’s own sweeping roller.

‘Ah.’ Stepping back from the wall, he meets the sergeant’s eyes, sorrowful. ‘My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to kill the mood, as Sergeant Strange likes to say.’ He smiles, guiltily and Morse holds his gaze, jaw tight, but eyes soft to look at him.

‘You alright? Only, I…’ He dips his head. ‘I haven’t really spoken to you about that, have I? Not recently, anyway.’ He says it with an expression that seems a lot like shame; Max shrugs, not particularly wishing to dwell.

‘All over and done with, old fellow. We’ve moved on.’ Some things more than others, he considers privately; all the strangeness between Morse and Thursday from that time having morphed into this odd, new hostility. He says nothing, but the room is heavy with sudden, thoughtful quiet; the beautiful, tuneful Lakme Duet that’s been accompanying their painting draws to a close on the record player and Morse tilts his eyes away from Max towards it.

‘Why don’t you choose the next record,’ he suggests, perhaps borne of sudden need for concession. ‘Maybe I could… make us some coffee?’

Max smiles, gamely; puts the roller aside as Morse disappears into the kitchen; shaking his slightly stiff hand out as he wanders over to the player, he ponders the fact that it’s the only real sense of character to the room. Everything else seems…almost generic, as though Morse requires nothing more than a place to sit, drink and think. With that in mind, Max handles the records carefully, sifting through them one by one – only to pause, startled when the expected operatic productions (and the Rosalind Calloway records, which Max has tactfully refrained from commenting on) reveal something a little more surprising beneath; pop-culture, or rather a whole stack of albums by the rather inscrutably-named Mamas and the Papas, looking rather ridiculous and frankly utterly at odds with the more sombre nature of the classical sleeves.

‘I didn’t know you were into this group,’ he comments as Morse returns with two glasses of water; can’t halt his scepticism; not when one considers the well-thumbed stack of opera beside them. Morse hesitates on the spot, looking almost comedic with a glass of water held out halfway; as Max accepts it with a murmur of thanks, he seems to recover himself.

‘Oh, that’s just – they were just lent to me. A friend,’ he fills in quickly and then, in an apparent bid to halt the conversation, drains his glass. Max raises his eyebrows at such unnecessary caginess; regards him over the top, follows his lead and takes a large gulp that soothes his throat, dry as it is from quiet chatter and paint fumes.

Unable to contain himself, he picks one of the records up, looks at the back, chuckles in memory. ‘My niece used to love this group,’ he informs Morse, in a bid to lighten the situation; Morse is watching him inspecting the records with an undeniable wary eye. ‘She was extremely heartbroken when they split. The prolonged period of morning was apparently rather grounds for a divorce then and there, according to her husband.’ He huffs, takes another sip of his drink; realises belatedly that Morse has paused, is staring at him in open surprise, clearly distracted.

‘Your niece is married?’ he asks. ‘How old is she?’

Max chuckles, rather touched. ‘I was what you might call a young uncle. She’s a good girl,’ he smiles, fondly; Morse nods, face softening a little. ‘How are your family?’

‘Oh, they’re – they’re well,’ Morse shifts on the spot. ‘I should probably ring Joyce at some point – but yes.’ He drinks more water in an apparent bid to buy himself time; Max watches him for a moment; considers how slow Morse was to dispel his company.

‘Morse – is…everything alright outside work?’ he pries gently, something about his tone hooks Morse back in, like a child who’s been caught daydreaming in class. Max raises his eyebrows, not wanting to press in anyway, watching him visibly hesitate; something seems to pass between them, the thing that none of them are talking about, the remnants of life from last year’s saga with Box and Jago – before he chuffs again and take another sip of his drink. His hands are shaking slightly, Max notices.

‘Am I a bad person, Max?’ he asks, apparently apropos of nothing and Max blinks; of all the things he expected, this wasn’t quite it. ‘Is there – I mean – do good and evil, do they really exist, do you think? Or are they just…social constructs, stopping us from getting what we truly want?’

Max shrugs. ‘Hard to say,’ he offers gently. ‘As a pathologist, I’ve seen my fair share of what mankind can do at its worst. _What evil luck soever for me remains in store,’_ he murmurs, reflecting on the unpredictable nature of his life as a pathologist – one minute you’re working in the morgue, minding your own affairs; the next, you’re tied up and gagged in the back of a van, being used as bait by a corrupted sergeant. Morse nods, sombre at the quote, lowering his gaze. ‘But no, to answer your question, I don’t think anyone who ran single-handed into a quarry containing several men with loaded guns could be classified as bad. Foolish, certainly, but – never morally reprehensible. Something you need to get off your chest?’ he adds, dryly, as Morse’s head swoops back up to look at him; before he seems to shake himself to attention.

‘Oh – ignore me,’ he smiles, politely, looking more himself suddenly. ‘You know, it’s – it’s silly – I had a conversation a bit like this with somebody else once.’ He drops himself into his chair, glances over at the records. ‘It’s not dissimilar, now I think about it.’

‘You’ve always had your own particular brand of morality, Morse,’ Max offers, unsure precisely where this is coming from; he can only assume it relates to DI Thursday somehow, and these recent, differing opinions between them and it makes him want to offer a kind word all the more. ‘Fierce and so it seems, completely endless. It may not make you particularly popular with some people, but it’s to be highly admired by the vital few.’

He says it with another look at the house and ponders the possibility that all of this might not just be for Morse alone anymore; true, they’ve never spoken about this sort of thing all that often, not since Max looked into disillusioned eyes by the side of the river and gave the only advice and comfort he could. The one that got away, indeed. ‘You certainly don’t have to be a part of the in-crowd at any rate, Morse, no matter what the admirable Mama Cass might try to claim.’

He says it with a slight smirk, aimed towards the records; takes a moment to realise that Morse has gone very still.

‘What did you just say?’ he asks, staring down at Max.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘About,’ Morse puts his drink down, scrambles to his feet, stands over him, ‘that last thing you said, about the in-crowd?’

‘Oh, the song of the same name,’ Max prompts, humouring him. ‘One of my niece’s favourites. She would never stop playing it; it gets stuck in a fellow’s head after a while.’ It’s not difficult to forget; his niece reaching over his head and turning up the wireless, dancing and sashaying around him, humming and losing herself in the music, _All the guys imitate us/But the original is still the greatest,_ singing along with the prideful, almost boastful lyrics. Max considers once more, with a sudden startlement, this friend of Morse’s and whether they – or perhaps, even, _she_ – does the same, within these four walls.

In the face of his silence, Morse is turning on his heel, halfway grasping his overalls off, frantically fumbling towards the phone.

‘I need to call Detective Thursday,’ he barks over his shoulder, ‘I think I know who killed Gerald Hayworth.’

*

Morse has a hunch and the hunch is correct; the next day, Gerald Hayworth’s killer has been charged – although it does involve a rather ridiculous chase through Oxford first and winds up with Max applying a cool cloth to a graze on Morse’s cheek down in the morgue while the sergeant winces and brings him up to speed.

‘It was his alleged best friend,’ he explains as Max listens carefully and tends to his small wound at the same time. ‘We found Gerald’s satchel hidden in his room. A trophy.’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Gerald thought they were friends, but he was just laughing at him all the time; regarded him as a figure of amusement. Then Gerald wound up winning the girl he wanted and suddenly…’

He shakes his head, starting towards the light of the window, a hand to his neck.

‘Well, congratulations on your arrest,’ Max offers, for want of anything else, squeezing water back into the basin. ‘You cracked it in the end, Morse.’

‘Well – thanks to you,’ Morse nods at him. ‘It was so simple – it was staring me in the face and I didn’t realise. I suppose I didn’t…’ He breaks off suddenly. ‘Naïve of me, I expect. Of _course,_ it was over a girl,’ he mutters that last bit almost to himself; Max’s brow furrows to watch him, a slightly worried outline, bags under the eyes that seem a little more prominent; eyes cast elsewhere. 

‘Maybe I _do_ try and be too clever,’ he murmurs finally and Max raises his eyebrows, gives him an arm to help him hop down from the table, hands him back his jacket.

‘Hardly seems to matter, Morse, if it helps save a life.’

‘Well… In any case, I was hoping to buy you a drink as thanks,’ Morse adds then, visibly coming out himself a little too rapidly. ‘Would you…?’

‘Well. Nothing else pressing,’ Max rejoins, surprised and pleased at such an offer. ‘Certainly. Let me get my coat and wash up.’

Morse nods. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ He smiles – a brief thing, but it’s a smile all the same – lingers. ‘Thanks, Max.’ Then he turns on his heel and leaves; Max watching him, wondering and just a little bit worried.

Well… still. Even if he can’t make head or tail of the sergeant’s head right now (and really, who can, on any given day) he can do _this_ for him; keep him company of an afternoon, at the very least. They’ll sort it all out, eventually.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Besides the obvious, Max and Morse, between them, quote the following Housman poems: 'XI, Yonder See The Morning Blink'; 'Stars, I Have Seen Them Fall'; 'IV, Illic Jacet' and 'As I gird on for fighting.' The song 'The In-Crowd' by the Mamas and the Papas was released in 1966, and after a scene in the finale which featured Violetta listening to the band's music, I was inspired.


End file.
